


Vertigo Via Venom

by hypnoidvoid



Category: IT (2017), IT - Stephen King
Genre: Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, Alternate Universe - No Pennywise (IT), Alternate Universe - Prison, Angst, Bisexual Richie Tozier, Blood, Cocaine, Drug Use, Explicit Language, First Meetings, Fluff and Angst, Friends to Lovers, Gay, Gay Eddie Kaspbrak, M/M, Past Domestic Violence, Prison, Violence, cellmates, eventually explicit, omg they were cellmates
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-09-21
Updated: 2018-11-20
Packaged: 2019-07-14 23:38:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 12,451
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16050938
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hypnoidvoid/pseuds/hypnoidvoid
Summary: The world is cruel. Very fucking cruel. Beaten blue, sullenly swollen, mouth unwillingly sewn shut, the world doesn’t give a shit about you. It never has, and never will. Exceptions inevitably exist in our world of definites, however. Here, Eddie Kaspbrak goes to a hockey game in light-hearted spirits with his best friend Beverly Marsh. Nothing could possibly go wrong, right? Wrong. To his cursed luck, another individual shares his draw of cards tonight as well. Thrown in the cell next to him, he hears the man speak his name that was possibly….. Rich?[Prison Reddie AU]





	1. The Martyr, The Heathen

**Author's Note:**

> I know this was initially titled “To Hell, Together”, but that will come into play later, I promise. AND, I was shocked by the amount of excitement for this fic, so I hope you like it! It was so much fun to write and honestly it was a delightful distraction from other projects. I love what I have prepared for this fic, so stay tuned. Also thank you for dealing with the delay, I needed the time away for mental health and I appreciate the patience xoxo

[Eddie Kaspbrak, 2:31 AM, Saturday] 

 

Sirens.

 

Oh god, the sirens.

 

They _hurt._

 

The noise reverberated along the underside of your spine and settled in the thick fluid at the base of your skull, alerting a panic reflex to the deadened brain cells that struggled to react in a blacked out state of consciousness. It made your skin crawl. Worms may have as well been slinking under the second layer of epidermis in all different directions.

 

Sirens travelled fast enough for glittered women stumbling out of clubs in blistered heels and their crusty dates, as well as the homeless residents curled into seemingly hidden city nooks, wastedly crook their heads to watch the copious amount of police cars and ambulances rush west. One elderly woman lounging in a lawn chair on the sidewalk waved her lit joint in the air with the same enthusiasm as a fangirl with an ignited lighter at a concert as the ambulances pursued the nightly drama.

 

Blaring emergency horns wailed down the backlit streets of West Olympic Boulevard, ready to turn the corner onto South Figueroa. They howled in flurried heist to retrieve their assailants now a block away. The closest officer to the scene and his partner received a message by radio about a violent fight that erupted inside the Staples Center stadium a few streets away pouring out into the street, and one that would inherently need back up.

 

A lot of backup.

 

Betty, she said her name was, frantically called in explaining (belligerently yelling in her also drunken manner) that a group of about seven men and one woman began to brawl in the front row of the LA Kings hockey game, spilling into countless rows of stands. Families scattered, the mascot put his knitted hands over his snout from yards away, drunken fans eagerly participated in the brawl for the pure euphoria of being involved in a fist fight. In current time on the call, Betty shrieked as one of the “exceptionally short” men vaulted onto the shoulders from the ground onto another man and punched the side of his face with a full can of beer until he collapsed to unconsciousness.

 

She mentioned this man had distinguishable blonde, curly hair with a dyed indigo strip along the side. And had horrifying fury in his eyes.

 

Drifting the corner onto Figueroa, they needn’t any directing to where they should go. The enormous crowd of blood thirsty people circled in the center of the fucking street was enough of a clue. The crowd blocked any kind of traffic that wanted to pass, adrenally riled up and chucking trash at cars that dared get close to interrupt the fight of now twenty people, maybe even more. A god damn mosh pit of flurried fists.

 

_“Get lost you fucking asshole, go around!”_

 

_“Fuck out of here!”_

 

_“Go dick yourself somewhere else!”_

 

The first two squadron cars pounded on their breaks, mutilating black tire marks into the asphalt. With guns drawn, they truculently hopped out of their vehicles. The following police cars rolled up along the sides of the first two, exiting with K9 units on steel leashes that only needed one latch unlocked to release total havoc. The trained Belgian Shepherds yelped and clawed at the ground, eyeing their potential victims in the whirlwind hurricane of violence.

 

The lead officer proceeded forward with his index finger happy on the trigger as he barged into the crowd, “Everybody get out of the fucking way! _MOVE_! L.A.P.D.!”

 

Most held their ground to continue egging on the contenders in the pit despite the officers, unphased by the presence of firearms. This crowd had little respect for government officials. If anything they were here to break up their fun, not protect them. Most people in Downtown Los Angeles held this mindset.

 

When the melee didn’t cease, the lead officer shot a round from his glock into the sky and turned to the K9 deputies, “Let ‘em go! _NOW_!”

 

The dogs entered the pit in focused assault.

 

With the addition of the gunshots and predatory dogs on the loose, people sprinted in every fucking direction. They scattered with the same ferocity of a band of roaches, not desiring in any sense to spend their night behind bars or clamped in the jaws of a canine. Some climbed street lights, some hid in trash cans, some scaled the sides of buildings to desperately reach fire escape stairs.

 

One of the K9 units chased a man down an alley, who screamed the entire time, until it was heard he was being shoved against a metal dumpster. The dog sank his teeth into the man’s forearm and began to drag him out of the alleyway back into the street for the officers to retrieve.

 

“That’s the one we got the call about, send Duke on him,” the lead officer commanded without hesitation, pointing to an individual in the center of the crowd.

 

The cop wielding the shepherd nodded. He snapped for the dog’s attention, pointed at the blonde man, and whistled an ear drum bursting frequency.

 

“Touch her one more time, _EVER,_ and I’ll fucking _... tear…. you….. limb….from….. LIMB_!” The fiery, targeted man feverishly grunted in between punches.

 

Duke obediently leapt onto the back of the heated man with blonde hair in the epicenter of the fight who was straddling another, slugging his face ruthlessly. With teeth baring, the shepherd snatched the collar of the man’s hockey jersey and yanked him off of the other severely bleeding man.

 

The dog may have even saved that man’s life.

 

“What the-, _FUCK_!” He yelped with sudden realization as he was being dragged away. He hated how easily the dog forcibly moved him towards the police cars, unable to struggle out of its clenched jaws. And he wasn’t done with that bigot he was wailing on yet, he would’ve liked to see him _dead_. Seeing the breath gutted out of that man’s lungs would have brought him pleasure, maddened gaiety even, especially if he could have done it himself.

 

_He deserved it. That waste of fucking oxygen._

 

“ _EDDIE_! He didn’t do anything, fucking leave him _ALONE_!” A woman screamed from the sidewalk, held back by multiple officers. She was a slender female of about 5’8”, but having her can of whoop-ass halted and unable to help her friend made her shake with wrath. Her red hair hung damply on her face over the blackened eye she now sported.

 

Panic swelled in her eyes as she witnessed Eddie being dragged across the intersection by a vested dog, and possibly because of her personal issues. She never intended her friend to get involved with her toxic relationships, _ex_ relationships, more specifically. Guilt and hatred swarmed her senses of rationality as Eddie, her best friend, was predictably about to legally account for her past faults.   

 

A toxic mindset to sport for a victim of abuse to have, but there was no coercing her now. She felt deep in her heart that this was all her fault.

 

_All my fucking fault, shit shit shit._

 

“At ease,” an officer calmly ordered, allowing the dog to release its hold on Eddie’s jersey.

 

Feebly getting to his feet he spat, “ _Excuse me_ , was that fucking necessar-”

 

The officer jolted down to ball his fist into the front of Eddie’s jersey, “You little _bitch_ , we know this was all your fucking fault,” and he twisted Eddie’s arm behind his back to slam him on the hood of his car, viciously making his jaw crash into the metal.

 

With a now split lip that poured blood down his chin, Eddie challenged, “ _Asshole_ , this was not my fault. You’ve got the wrong guy, I was just defending myself and my best frien-”

 

The cop handcuffed Eddie behind his back before lifting him by the strainingly tightened cuffs, and jutted him forward to slam into the front of his car with a harsh force again to whisper in his ear, “I don’t give a shit, at _all_ really, but now you’re in my custody responsible for all this mess.”

 

“You _son of a bitch_ , you’re letting those cunts get away, you realize that, don’t you _officer_?”

 

“You’ll refer to me as Officer Bowing, and that’s final. Now get in the fucking car.”

 

“ _Fuck yo_ -”

 

It was too late to deal with this tomfoolery, so with the back of his gun Officer Bowing rammed it _hard_ into the back of Eddie’s head. It wasn’t hard enough to create a gash like the one on his face, but Eddie would have a throbbing bump from the blow, as well as intense mental spinning.

 

 _Conveniently_ , the car’s rear and dash cameras were momentarily shut off. No footage? No evidence? No proof. No persecution. No lawsuit.

 

Dizziness settling, and eyeballs rattling in their sockets, Eddie willingly attempted to move into the back of the cop car with blurred vision. His back was gratuitously shoved, firm enough for his face to crash into the unsanitary seat cushions, now being able to smell the stench of the last decade of inmates that rode in the vehicle.

 

“EDDIE! _FUCK_! Don’t worry— fucking get _off_ of me— I’m here, okay!—I said get _OFF_ of me— I’ll get you out! Hang in there!” The woman screamed, pounding on the outside of the squadron car he laid in, half conscious.

 

An officer moved his hands from her shoulders to her wrists, “Ma’am I’m going to need you to calm dow-”

 

“Tell me to calm down one more time, I fucking _dare_ you. And my name is Beverly you _twat_ , get my friend out of ther-”

 

“No can do Miss, is your eye okay? Here, we can take you home-”

 

“I’ll be back in the morning Eddie— fucking touch me one more time and I swear to _God_ you’ll lose your hands— stay strong, I love you so much! Thank you, I love you I love you!” Beverly blurted as she was forcefully escorted away from the vehicle.

 

The sirens, the yelling, the abysmal pain his body endured— it was all too much. Flooded with exhaustion, he was induced into a temporary bludgeoned comma.

 

Eddie’s brain switched off.

 

Lights out.

 

* * *

 

[Richie Tozier, 3:02 AM, Saturday] 

 

“Who’s dick do I have to suck to get a roll of quarters and a drink? This karaoke machine is goddamn calling my name… hey! Stud muffin, you there!” Richie obnoxiously hailed from the opposite end of the bar, tapping his knuckles on the counter. This was his fourth bar of the night, and by himself. He would not be happy at the charges on his debit card tomorrow, but fuck it, this was the price he was willing to pay for momentary happiness. Tomorrow was a new day to slip back into masked numbness.

 

Another day, same shit.

 

 _Whatever_.

 

The sharp eyed bartender shot him a dirty look, adjusted his bow tie, then continued to converse with the attractive blonde woman in front of him. She was definitely a Cougar from the look of her barren ring finger, low cut dress with silicone breasts included, and good looks despite her age. He skillfully spun bottles over his outstretched arms in artistic whirls to impress her, but as much as he enjoyed entertaining, he really just wanted to earn the extra tip; fuck, he wanted to be an actor, not a forever bartender. Being a bartender had become his primary job in the eight years he’d lived in Los Angeles and he was at the point of pulling out his own hair for a screen break.

 

He may have been broke, but wasn’t broken. Never broken.

 

With those fake boobs she must have some extra cash, right? Some to spare? Dude even added in the extra shot of vodka to her fruity cocktail in hopes she would tip extra.

 

She didn’t though. 

 

Richie took a deep breath to stand up straight and tall, adjusted his patched jean jacket to rest complimentary on his broad shoulders, pushed up his sleeves to expose two fully tattooed arms, and swept his clown sized feet across the floor to meet the busy bartender. The tattoos creeping up his neck were also visible under the dimmed mood lighting of the bar. A mischievous grin crossed his face, toothpick peeking out from in between the small gap in his front teeth. He spun the wooden spoke incessantly with his tongue, shifting it up and down then side to side, sometimes in a circular motion. A wave of burned menthol cigarette hit the noses of those in his wake as he strolled across the bar. Many set of eyes followed him as he ambled, most of them intrigued women. They eye fucked him from head to toe. The only thing Richie lacked to complete his aesthetic was a motorcycle or a vintage truck, but alas, he had a run down hand-me-down Jeep Cherokee. Not that he was driving it tonight (Jar Jar Binks, he named his trusty steed), there was no way he’d get behind the wheel in his given state or the level he was planning on reaching. He was reckless, but not the collective crazy it required to lose his living and freedom.

 

“Move aside Toots, we both know you’re not going to give him the tip he wants anyway,” he barged in with a wink, making her angrily shift to the seat to her left. He could have sat in that open seat, but making her get up was the power move he wanted to assert.

 

Slamming his elbows on the counter and resting his chin in the hands that cupped his face he asked again to the bartender, “Now, what does this handsome superstar have to do for a drink? _Hmmm_?”

 

“Buddy you’re pushing my buttons here, _fine_ , what do you want?” The bartender succumbed. He was discouraged at Richie’s blatant, but very true, observation of the woman so he shifted his attention to the midnight locked miscreant with icy periwinkle eyes. Perhaps he could get a tip out of this man instead if he played his cards right.

 

“Any specials? It’s Saturday so if you say there’s none, you’re a lyin’ fool,” Richie assumingly reasoned. But, he wasn’t wrong. Mister Richie Tozier was a professional observer, analyst. And no, he wasn’t a scientist, a psychologist, or a photographer— he was a comedic satirist. The satire he shit from his mouth was a direct result of being all too keen on how the world revolves.

 

And sometimes that insight was a burdening talent. Cynicism and Richie may have as well been two peas in one pod; a chaotic duo for other ears to delightfully enjoy, or passionately hate. There was no in between.

 

The bartender snarkily raised his eyebrows and pinched chocolate waves to curl orderly behind his ear, “It’s Sunrise Saturday, so if you’re in a mood for tequila today is your day. _Congrats_.”

 

“Sold,” Richie shouted like an auctioneer and held out a twenty dollar bill. His rings clattered against each other as he waved the money for the bartender to collect.

 

Richie may have been an overwhelming asshole, but the enigmatic twenty-five year old had a hypnotic charisma that made ambivalence spike with an unwilling pull to loathingly love him. His voice was devilishly magnetic, seizing your full attention and trapping you to listen without choice. Sometimes you’d want to walk away, pinch his lips, drown him out. But you’d find yourself once again being roped in to that same voice that spewed obscene jokes and insults that diverged painfully far from political correctness.

 

He swiftly slipped the bill from Richie’s fingers into his own and deposited it in the cash register. There was a moment of thoughtfulness the bartender experienced, peering over his shoulder to peek at Richie (who was picking at his fingernails), then back to the register: _I’ve definitely heard that voice before, where have I heard that voice….._

 

 _Order #324:_  

  * __Tequila Sunrise__


  * _Two Extra Shots (On House)_



 

_Bartender Note: This dude may be famous, idk? I’ll pay for extra shots if I have to later, don’t worry._

 

Only if he knew if this wasn’t Richie’s first bar tonight and he was edging drunk, no, _fucked_ up. Richie had a ridiculous tolerance to alcohol, and boy did that make him livid sometimes. How he wished to have the angelic tolerance of a petite woman. It would be cheap, easier than this. But no, he could down three beers in a half hour and barely catch a buzz. Whether it was due to genetics or a built tolerance, Richie didn’t know. Either option was viably debatable. It was unfair no matter what. His lithe frame wouldn’t initially appear like it could handle much booze, but heck, he’d use that aspect to make some extra cash for fun at bars occasionally. How?

 

Drinking contests.

 

The challenge? Go up to the burliest, most aggressive, arrogant looking buffoon and hustle the fuck out of him. He didn’t even need the money, this game was just a fun sport for him.

 

“Hey are you on the radio?” The bartender proddingly asked, fully aware that the answer would most likely be a ‘yes’.

 

Richie’s freckled hands rattled in the air then gripped an imaginary microphone, “Trash Talk with Richie Tozier on the hour from 3-7, hit me up during your freakin’ commute with your song suggestions and dumbass questions until your mother comes home to banish you back into her basement! Gimme the detes, animals,” he jested to answer the bartender. He adjusted the silver nose ring in his right nostril so that the ball couldn’t be seen anymore, then pulled down his lower eyelids and blinked so his contacts could adjust back to center.

 

“I fucking knew it, my name is Stanley Uris. Stan for short. And uh, I actually love your show Mr. Tozier.”

 

“Fuck, call me Richie, _please_. We’ve got to be like the same age anyway, so don’t even bother with that Mister shit,”

 

“And glad someone does, doesn’t seem like a lot of idiots like to listen to me anymore,” Richie hung his head, taking the mixed drink Stan concocted for him. It was much stronger than he anticipated. _Good._

 

“Okay, _Richie_ , maybe because your show isn’t for idiots,” Stan shrugged, almost offended.

 

“I guess, but ratings have gone down. All these fucking jackasses just want to listen to filth now, y’know? They don’t give two shits about anything if it’s not not on TMZ or sponsored by something expensive. Today’s pop culture is garbage and you can fucking quote me, I really don’t care anymore. Catch me in a ditch before I play rap, or God forbid _country_ , on my fucking podcast. The world is spiraling into a pit of trash, Bar Man. And not the good kind.”

 

Richie’s eyes clouded having remembered the reason for his drinking binge tonight, and threw the rest of his drink back in two gulps. There wasn’t even a shiver. Stan wasn’t sure to be impressed or worried at that, but took back his glass regardless to refill it. He felt he really didn’t need Richie’s approval for a refill. And he was right.

 

Carding fingers through his overgrown curls, all they did was return back to their messy black frizz as soon as his hand returned to the counter. Richie looked like a human equivalent of an exotically tamed animal, harnessing their instincts back from internally vexed outlash.

 

Defeated.

 

For the first time Stan was able to clearly see the purple rings stained underneath of Richie’s eyes, and it troubled him. They were ingrained with sleep deprivation and depressive antics from the look of it. Richie was a primed observer, but Stan was a bartender, who was also a practiced people watcher. Maybe even more so.

 

Stan saw people at their lowest, most vulnerable. And Richie was no exception.

 

The tortured, satellite rings of expenditure under Richie’s glazed orbs almost matched the purple hue of his cooled lips from the winter chill outside. They were plump and swollen, but mostly from chewing on them out of anxious habit. In fact, Richie’s entire aura embodied blue and purple: the navy of his denim jacket, the blue rose on his neck, the indigo of the veins thinly apparent under his pale skin that wove between his ink, the violet puffy bags under his eyes, his cold periwinkle irises, and the metaphorical cloud looming above his head. All blue and purple; colors of cooled exhaustion.  

 

Confidence was undeniably there, but with the addition of consecutive rounds of alcohol, he became more of a walking corpse that emitted lively humor who obviously cloaked his suffering with a surfacely hollow, triumphant demeanor.

 

He was a man in dire need of a toxin exorcism, but was exceptionally intelligent nonetheless. Everyone needs a cleanse now and then.

 

Wherever Richie travelled, the surrounding night seemed to absorb his mood. Tonight, his wavelength of blue melancholy ubiquitously radiated among the dive bar. It followed him. An alone, drunken woman stared at her drink, then menu, then drink thrice more, wasting time for a Tinder date that would never show. One man sat in the bathroom stall contemplating the divorce papers he has yet to sign. Another woman stumbled in from the bar next door, plopping herself on the velvet cushions in the corner of the bar to cry quietly in the safety of her new, uncrowded space. She didn’t cause a scene, create any noise, just silently wept into her sleeve over the death of her childhood dog that had to be put down a week ago. There was so much hurt in this room it was tangible, but easily unnoticed to the imperceptive eye.

 

“I quite like your show actually. I mean, you say some questionable shit, but you’ve got balls of steel to say it at least,” Stan dryly chuckled.

 

“Thank you Stan m’Lad, I appreciate it. Here take my number, talk to me sometime,” Richie unexpectedly added.

 

Stan inputted Richie’s digits into his phone and charmingly laughed, “I’ll make sure to personally message you mid podcast: 'Hey Jackass, it’s Stan, that was fucking dumb’.”

 

“Not wrong, Bartender,” Richie raised his glass before taking another sip.

 

“I’m rarely wrong,” Stan smirked.

 

“Seems so, and I kinda like you for that. _Kinda_. Now excuse my French, but can I get that fucking roll of quarters? This fucktard needs to sing poorly in your bar,” he demanded, fortuitously slurring his words.

 

“Here ya go, just don’t scare my guests away too bad, okay? I need their tips,” Stan playfully added as he handed Richie the roll of quarters for the karaoke machine.

 

“No promises bucko, but just in case,” and Richie picked a crumpled $100 bill from his pant’s pocket smiling, nonchalantly handing it directly to Stan instead of placing it in the tip jar that was closer. Rudely blunt, but Richie had a tender heart. Deep down in there.

 

And he did really like Stan, he made a mental note of wanting to come back to this bar just to talk to him again in person sometime. He was a fresh breath of genuity; rare nowadays.

 

“ _Shit,_  thanks,” Stanley’s eyes widened as he took the tip, and suspiciously watched Richie swivel off of the stool, tuck a cigarette behind his ear, and saunter towards the stage of drunken guests. He wondered what it was like to be wildly famous, yet unrecognizable by face value.

 

If Richie kept his mouth shut, he was just any ordinary person. Yeah he was tattooed from head to toe and had a questionable sense of style, but he could have been a nobody just like everybody else. But the second his trap began rambling, it was a different story. People recognized, cared, they paid attention even if Richie didn’t appreciate his crowd (which was significantly gargantuan, despite Richie's discrepancies). He was on the radio, _public_ radio, where he could play his favored tunes, _and_ had his own private podcast to say whatever he wanted that he couldn’t on the radio. That was a luxury not many had.  

 

Stan couldn’t place why he liked Richie, perhaps the honesty, but he made sure at least a few more drinks would make their way towards Richie free of charge before he left because of the tip. And the fact that he sincerely did enjoy Richie’s daily podcast. He found himself too many times outwardly sniggering at Richie’s crassness on his lunch breaks to ignore.

 

Feeding him more drinks was an egregious mistake. Richie’s alcohol tolerance would only hold him for so long before he tipped over the deep end into complete blacked out nonsense that got him into unmitigated trouble. And more often than not.

 

Waltzing up to the stage, he located the sheet of paper that held the order of people that wanted to sing songs, but by the looks of it, all of the names were crossed out. Everyone now was just hopping up when the open opportunity presented itself.

 

He pulled the cigarette from behind his ear and motioned to light it, looking at Stan before he sparked the flame. There were no words verbalized, Richie just shot him that ‘is it okay to smoke in here?’ gaze, and Stan insouciantly gave him a thumbs up after looking around and seeing no sign of his manager.

 

With his cigarette lit, he waited for the previous group of drunken minors (who definitely all had fake IDs) to finish their rendition of Queen’s _Bohemian Rhapsody_. Wow, he forgot how long that fucking song was, reminded by the screaming, tone-deaf teenagers at the microphone singing.

 

When they were done, he inputted the full $5 stack of quarters earning him 10 songs.

 

Song 1: _Heartbreaker—Pat Benatar_

Song 2: _Message In A Bottle— The Police_

Song 3: _Still Loving You— The Scorpions_

Song 4: _Stayin’ Alive— Bee Gees_

Song 5: _Never Gonna Give You Up— Rick Astley_

 

By the end of his third song Richie was blacked out, fucked up out of his brain, seeing doubles, no, _triples_ , incoherently belligerent. He could sing, but couldn’t have told you who the first president of the United States was. His answer would have been Roger Rabbit. But even boozed up to his limit, he had a magnificent voice. He drew a crowd from the street, casting a blinding spell on them to come into the bar to hear him sing. Some believed he was a paid act by the bar, oblivious to the karaoke machine behind him.

 

Stan clapped after each completed song, but grew concerned with Richie’s state and clearly mentioned to all of the waiters to discontinue the drinks sent to him on stage. The bar’s staff was pleased with the unlikely crowd rallied in, but Stan seemed to be the only one uncharacteristically questioning of their star guest.

 

And it was true. Stan rarely cared about the people that came in and out of the bar, but Richie was different. He felt they could even be friends. Cutting off drinks was his way of showing friendly perturbance.

 

After his third song Richie took an intermission and skipped to the bathroom, but was met with a small group of fans that recognized him (his voice) inside. After washing his hands, they eagerly offered him a bump of cocaine. Their treat to him that they’d hope he’d take.

 

“ _Wha-_ , wait hold on, _wha-_ , HA, what kind of, _uh_ of, booger sugar are we talkin’ chaps?”

 

“Good enough, Trashmouth,” a smitten woman responded, holding the end of a car key to his face (yes, she finagled her way into the men's room). She couldn’t wait to tell her sorority sisters later that she shared her 8-ball with _the_  Richie Tozier.

 

“Uhhhhh okay, _fuck it_ ,” Richie obliged.

 

Richie finished the last two songs, amped on illegal stimulants that illusioned a temporary sobriety. The crowd neglected to notice any difference in his enigmatic stage presence and cheered the entire time, swaying their drinks in the air and singing along to his retro song choices.

 

“ _You_ , you all, yeah _yuh-yeah_ , even y-yuh-you! _You_ , ruh-rock!” He pointed into the cheering crowd at no particular person, holding the microphone too close to his mouth.

 

“Fuck, do I call him an Uber?” Stan turned to the other bartender. She just threw her hands up and walked away, not wanting the responsibility.

 

“Great, fucking great. _Nice_. This is fine, everything is _fine_ ,” and he crisply walked to the opposite side of the bar to the facility’s phone.

 

But before he was able to call any number, Richie was striding out of the bar with the unplugged microphone into the street. Richie didn’t have a tab to pay, there was no reason to go after him, but Stan dropped the phone, chucked his uniformed apron over his head, and chased after him.

 

“RICHIE!”

 

Twirling the end of the microphone’s wire in his fingers and holding the head to his lips, he turned to Stan from yards away, “Y-yuh-es baby, that’s mah name!”

 

“Let me call you an Uber, dumbass! _Fuck_ I’ll drive you home, just come back in, _please_?” He pleaded. It increasingly bothered him that he seemed to be the only one who cared about Richie’s well being. Richie was in the middle of the fucking street, more inebriated than he’d seen most, and stumbling with a microphone. No good could come out of this situation.

 

“No, _no_ , I’m oh-okay. I _got_ this Stan,” Richie murmured back with bleary and reddened eyes, tripping over the straggling shoelaces of his high top converse. With his free hand from the microphone, he lit a cigarette. The grey smoke danced with him in undefined rings.

 

“I’m trying to help you Richie, I don’t do this for everyone.”

 

“Maybe next time Staniel,” Richie slurred in between puffs. His sobered internal voice scolded him for that response. Despite his behavior, Richie was softened by Stan’s concerned advances. No one did this for him.

 

Stan began to stomp out in to the street to meet Richie, “I’m going to ask you one more time. Come back in.”

 

After brisk reconsideration, Richie agreed to Stan’s orders, “F-fine, fine, _okay_. You win Stan the Man, I’ll come i-”

 

Xenon headlights from a parked police car in a ‘no parking zone’ lit their rays on the barren street, solely illuminating Richie stumbling in the center. Stan stealthily backstepped to distressingly watch from the entrance of the bar as the disaster unfolded. He tried, right?

 

Cigarette lit, newborn giraffe legs wobbling, laces untied, eyes glassy, Richie was fucked.

 

 _Fucked_.

 

He vigorously wiped his eyes, hopelessly trying to adjust his tripled vision to the headlights. Two overly ardent wipes of his knuckles over his shut eyes was all it took to unintentionally fist out both his contacts, never to be found again.

 

A drunken haze was one thing, but realistic blindness was another. Especially when you were seeing triples with guided eyesight. Stimulatingly drunk, blind triplets was another world. When some visit the ocean and lose certain articles, like sunglasses or earrings, they remark jokingly, ' _I'm giving back to the Mother, it’s a cycle. We take, we give'._ This was an unfortunate parallel. Tonight the Earth sucked back Richie’s logistic perception, physical vision, unmet wit, dignity, and _laughed_ about it. To him, the world was there to spite him, himself, just a mere demonic plague that walked upon its surface.

 

_Deserved, I guess._

 

A cop stepped out from the car followed by his partner, unleashing a flashlight on Richie's face, “Hey bud, you been drinking tonight?”

 

“Only devil water and pussy, I promise Occifer,” Richie blurted, wincing at the brightness.

 

They shared a laugh and continued to question him, the second officer speaking this time, “Yeah? Well if you can pass our drinking test we’ll let you go.”

 

With crossed arms, Stan leaned against the opening at the threshold of the bar watching the scene. He shook his head and pursed his lips. 

 

Richie surprisingly walked a straight line, touching his nose and even doing graceful spins occasionally, but couldn’t speak without slurring every syllable. He blew a 0.4% alcohol level on the officer’s breathalyzer and was immediately booked.

 

One of the officers earnestly retrieved a pair of handcuffs, “Listen, I know you passed the line test, but you didn’t with the breathalyzer. Honestly the level you tested at is fatal and I don't even know how you’re standing.”

 

“But here I am, _standing_ ,” Richie patronized, swaying out of gravity and almost falling over.

 

“Sorry Sir, but I have to book you. If you could hold out your hands-”

 

Richie started running.

 

The partner of the handcuffing cop began sprinting after Richie and quickly caught up to him, tackling him to the ground. At this point, Richie wasn’t just a danger to himself, but a danger to everyone else. He went limp as the officer picked him up, and maneuvered him back to the squadron car. Richie’s eyes were dark, in another dimension of reality. His current existence was lucid, floating where he walked. Nothing made plausible sense anymore.

 

_You’re a fucking idiot. Useless. Fucking useless. No one cares about you, the world doesn’t care about you, and look, here you are. Someone’s puppet._

 

Stan watched, painfully empathizing. He unlocked his phone’s lockscreen and thoughtfully looked at Richie’s newly inputted contact information as he was placed in the backseat of the cop car.

 

Richie allowed himself to be gently sat in the back of the vehicle, handcuffs chafing his bony, pale wrists. They hurt, but physical pain could always be overcome. Always. Much more than emotional. Laying his head against the headrest, he stared out of the window blindly viewing blurred traffic signals and car headlights.

 

_I couldn’t see then._

_Can’t see now._

_What’s that point?_

_There’s none._

 

He closed his eyes, head spinning, reeling.

 

Time to sleep for Trashmouth Tozier.

 

* * *

 

  _[Metropolitan Detention Center, 3:30 AM, Saturday]_

 

Eddie lifted hooded eyelids to halogen lights and a baby bawling. The mother wasn’t doing much to suppress it’s dissatisfied resentments either; just some unsuccessful back patting and shushing.

 

He was walking, more like hobbling, through a lobby hooked to the arm of a strong man in a uniform. With no idea where he was or what time it was, Eddie slid his feet along the polished floor following his escort. His fingerprints were taken, photograph snapped, I.D. recorded for paperwork, and tossed in an all white cell. There was a stiff bed lacking sheets or a pillow, porcelain toilet, sink with a mirror, and nothing else. Not even a clock. The door had a small square window cracked open, and underneath of it a slit to possibly slip a metal tray of slopped food through.

 

 _Gross_.

 

“God damnit,” Eddie breathed out, slumping on the creaking bed. His phone wasn’t in his pocket anymore, along with the rest of his belongings. No money, no car keys, no wallet, no inhaler. His jersey was ripped in several places, shorts dirtied with asphalt streaks, knuckles bloodied, legs scratched the fuck up, and when reaching a hand up to his face there was a gash plumped on his bottom lip and bump protruding from his cheekbone, as well as the back of his head.

 

He rushed over to the mirror to take a look at himself.

 

“ _Shi-_ ,” was all he managed to speak before gaping at himself. His eyes flew open to an ungodly size and he had to grip the edge of the sink to keep his balance. He definitely had a concussion. Playing baseball for so many years as a child, and now being a wrestling instructor, he knew _exactly_ when he he had a fucking concussion.

 

Running his golden eyes over his face, he looked drastically battered. Lip split and swollen, eye blacked with a matching lacerated cheekbone, and scratches slashed down his neck. The blue against his freckled, light skin and blonde hair made a frightening contrast. Washing his hands, then his face with just unfiltered jail water, he rolled his eyes, took one last look at his face, then retreated back to the bed. God, how he wished they provided him with soap. The only activity worth his time right now was to lay back and try to catch some sleep.

 

 _Try_.

 

He hummed himself to an unsettled sleep state, face down on the bed attempting to block out the lamp above him. About a half hour of undisturbed silence passed before vague echoes down the hall could be heard from his open window. Heavy footsteps, chains rattling, a raspy voice.  

 

“Yeah yeah, _JEEZ_ , you could be a lil gentl-, _CHRIST_ ,” A man muttered as he was shoved into the cell next to Eddie, tripping on his own feet and hitting the concrete floor upon his entrance. He whimpered as he hit the floor.  

 

Eddie shot up from his bed to creep next to his cell’s open window, keeping an attentive ear to the raucous. He wiped his eyes after restlessly napping, and listened closely.

 

“A fucking palace! The _luxury_! You guys must have spent a fuckin’ fortune on this shit,” the new inmate sarcastically tantalized, still on the ground. Eddie couldn’t help muffling a laugh from that remark.

 

“It’s the best we have right now Sir, you can make your phone call in the morning.”

 

“ _Good_ , I’ve been meaning to respond to that dirty voicemail your mom, _mother_ , _mommy_ , left me.”

 

The cop slammed the door shut and grumbled as he walked back to the lobby.

 

“ _Fuck_ ,” the new inmate snarled, getting to his feet.

 

By amused impulsivity, Eddie decided to speak out of his window to his only neighbor, “She must be a lovely woman to make her your only call.”

 

The neighbor stepped up to his own cracked window and responded back with unusual merriment, “The _loveliest_.”

 

“I couldn’t sleep in this shithole, it’s awful actually, but you seem like, uh…. decent company,” Eddie admitted. He missed Bev, but this dude was funny enough to pass his time until he could be bailed out, or released. Sleep was a lost cause at this point.

 

“You don’t seem too bad either, what’s ya name?”

 

“Eddie.”

  
“Eddie? I like that name, yeah that’s quite the name, I’m Richie. Pleased to meet ya, _cell buddy_.”


	2. Faceless, Frosted Fingertips

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I began this fic initially on a drunken whim and now I’m fucking invested. I love these versions of Eddie and Richie so much, I hope this chapter shows that with their verbal characterizations. Note that parts of next chapter will definitely be explicit— very explicit.

[Metropolitan Detention Center, 4:03 AM, Saturday] 

“Eddie? I like that name, yeah that’s quite the name, I’m Richie. Pleased to meet ya, _cell buddy._ ”

“Pleasure meeting you too,” Eddie smiled into his words, ignoring the sting he felt as his split lip stretched. It was nice not to be alone anymore, even if his company was an indiscreetly drunk stranger. The man had a pleasantly deep voice where every time he spoke, or jumbled indefinite syllables, there were sparks of incredulities leaking outside scripted lines. In other words, the unseen man had no discrepancy between speaking rights and wrongs for the time being; all that was left, was undeniable honesty.

_This is way better than sleeping anyway,_ the sneaky thought circled around Eddie’s brain.

Richie stumbled closer to his cracked window and placed his scuffed hands on both sides, “You have _uh_ , a familiar voice…. do I know you?”

_I’ve heard that voice, I fucking KNOW that voice_ , Richie confidently speculated, scrunching his nose and narrowing his eyes in an attempt to think better. None of his physical reactions would aid his mental capability, however. This was equivalent to a person who had smoked an entire blunt scuffling to turn down the television volume in order to see clearer, or taking off their glasses in hopes they’d be able to smell their microwaved leftover pizza better. The correlation between senses fused.

“I dunno anyone named Richie, unless your real name is really something else,” Eddie chuckled.

“My full name is Rich, Richard, but please, _please oh please_ Freddie, call me Richie. We’re friends now, so you can call me Richi-”

Eddie cut him off and shoved his face into the gapped opening of his window, “It’s Eddie, my friends call me Eddie. Full name is Edward, but you call me that and I’ll reach my hand through that window of yours and strangle you.”

“Feisty…. who’s stopping you, _Edward_ ,” Richie joyfully tantalized through drunken chortles, obnoxiously clanking his silver rings against the smudged window. He patted one hand over his chest to blindly locate a cigarette he had stored in one of the many denim pockets he had, as well as the lighter the officers neglected to confiscate. There were so many pockets to him, all of like five, and all were buttoned shut. He just kept groping for a bulge, not bothering to recollect past movements of where he might have stored what he was looking for. Oh well, he wouldn’t have remembered anyway.

_Should’a brought my fucking glasses to work. My bic is here somewhere damnit. IS THAT IT— nope. Nope nope. Not it. Fuckin’ fudge, fudge choc popsicle fuck frack lick suck. Lick? Fuck the cig, want ice cream,_ Richie rambled in his head, coming to awareness just how inebriated he was.

Eddie leaned back and snorted, “Okay Richard, I’m surprised more people don’t call you Dick. Seems to be a fitting nickname.”

Richie curled his tongue over the front of his teeth, recoiling the muscle between the minor gap, “You don’t even know me shweetheart. Neva’ even seen my face, and here ya are making assumptions. Y’know an assumption is making an ass of you n’ me right? But they do...they do call me Dick. _Big Dick_.” Richie’s features darkened into a devious smile even though no one but himself could feel the heat of his derision.

“Jesus fucking Christ, not surprised you’re here now,” he huffed, rolling his eyes. Eddie dragged his feet farther from the window towards the sink to run cold water over the wounds on his face again.

“Woah now partner! Watch that fucking language Freddi-”

“ _EDDIE_ ,” he loudly corrected with his eyes closed and head in the sink, his temper mildly rising amidst the entertainment. Eddie didn’t like his buttons pressed in the wrong areas. No one did, but Eddie especially didn’t.

“Chill out, I’m only goofing with ya Eddie,” and Eddie heard Richie slump against the cell and slide down to the floor to sit, his head thumping the door as his caboose collided with the concrete. The audible sigh exhaled from Richie’s cell slapped Eddie across the face with the transferred exhaustion, not that Eddie needed anymore burdening of slumber reminders, but the breath escaping from his cellmate resonated in the curve at the bottom of Eddie’s lungs; it was mutual. The rest they desperately wanted was far from attainment, the desire for sleep scraping its nails at their insides and eyelids, unable to be appeased.

Eddie dried his face and curiously reconciled back to the window sucking on his lip, “So how’d you end up here? The officers sounded pissed.” Eddie slid his back down his door and sat his butt on the floor below his window as Richie had. Both had their heads resting against locked doors, using each other’s company with only words as the sole vice for their night of unjust debacles.

_Poor you_ , they both ironically thought. There was no face to the voice, no touch to the sound they felt reverberating along the surfaces of their skin, only words of chained men.

“AH! There it is,” and the flick of a lighter ignited. Richie shoved curls off of his forehead so that the flame of the lighter didn’t catch. The lusting devil on his shoulder told him to leave that hair there, catch himself on fire, then he’d be here for an actual reason; not just here for being a drunken disgrace. An alone, drunkard depressed by his reality.  

“Huh?”

“Nothin’, what was your question?” Richie refocused. He took a drag of his cigarette, at the same time evaluating the smoke detector in the far right corner of his cell. Pinching the cancer stick tightly between his fingers, he made it do continuous figure eights to dissipate as much smoke as possible, holding in his puffs each time he sucked. It hurt his lungs, but the buzzed relief it gave his body was worth the restrained pain.

_This is ya only cig Tozier, make it last._

“How’d you end up here at like three in the morning? You don’t sound like an awful kook. Annoying, kinda drunk, but guess I’m just curious what happened in your night,” Eddie admitted, grasping onto any rope of conversation.

“Potentially losing my job,” Richie garbled with the cigarette in his mouth.  

Eddie hung his throbbing head, “That blows. And not even in the good way.”

“No you’re right, not in the good way,” Richie forced a laugh, accidentally dropping his cigarette. He picked it up and placed it back into his mouth. With the stick loosely stuck to his lips, he had free hands to twiddle and intertwine as distraction.

Eddie soothingly massaged the side of his face, “I heard a ‘potential’. At least it’s not gone yet.”

Richie abruptly shifted the focus of conversation, “And what about you, Eds?”

“ _Eddi-_ ”

“Eddie, sorry. You were here first, how did you end up in this shithole?”

“Yikes, it’s a long ass story.”

“And it looks like,” Richie comedically turned his neck to both sides as if he had an audience as a collective witness, “I’ve got a long ass time.”

“You sure?”

“Try me.”

Breathing in the stale, dry air of the citizen penitentiary, Eddie instinctively tugged at the overgrown indigo streak in his hair and looked at its split ends thoughtfully, “I shouldn’t have even been the one here… _really_ , no bullshit. I don’t deserve to be here. I was just looking out for Bev, Beverly, she’s my best friend. You would do anything for your best friend, right?”

* * *

 

_[Eddie Kaspbrak, 11:43 PM, Friday]_

_“This games lasting forever, and ya know what? I’m fucking living for it. There have been so many figh— YES DOUGHTY FUCKING SMACK HIM, GET EM GET EM— exactly my point. Thanks for getting us tickets for my birthday, Edwardo,” Bev leaned down after springing from her seat to kiss Eddie on the forehead._

_“You got me the new muffler I wanted for my Camaro…. on Labor Day. No one gives presents on Labor Day. It’s the least I could do. I can’t believe you remembered the model, what’d you do, go through my phone?” He teased._

_“I’m a genius, got a brilliant memory! And plus— you may or may not, MAY, have left a tab open on my laptop.”_

_“I did that on purpose.”_

_“No you didn’t,” she crossed her arms with a joker’s smirk on her face._

_“Yes I did,” Eddie failed to persuade, matching her body language._

_Beverly remembered the first time she ever met Eddie, and so did he. It was almost three years ago to the date._

_Rain doesn’t fall often in California, let alone Los Angeles, but when they both found themselves drenched and without umbrellas stranded at the same bus stop under a flickering street lamp in the dead of night, they laughed in unison and instead of waiting for the bus to go wherever they planned to go, ambled arm in arm to a gas station for beers and honey roasted peanuts. They felt part of the same spirit, of the same star by obscure dimension, but understood each other after just one night of coincidental meet. And not as limelight crossed lovers, but as two finding another person that completed part of their unfilled voids._

_Bev snatched his face to press a chaste kiss to each cheek and swung an arm around him as she sat down, “I love you, Ed. Why can’t all guys be like you?”_

_“Because then you would never find a boyfriend. They’d all be gay,” Eddie flatly responded, trying his best not to smile through quivering lips. It didn’t work._

_She belted a buzzed cackle, “No no, no, I mean like, just how you are. You’re sweet, genuine, down to get rowdy, it’s like, some men just can’t treat anyone with respect these days. Nobody, nada. Not just women! Men too, fuck,” she cathartically spewed, shaking her head and using the palm of her hand to smack her forehead multiple times._

_Eddie loved Beverly. Not in the way a mate would, but with the same pride an older brother would smile with when he was teaching his younger sister to ride a bike without training wheels. Or, the way a far onlooker across the park would be inspired by a peaceful individual reading a book to themselves underneath a willow. Or, with the undeniable love of a guardian angel that harbors an equal amount of selflessness, wisdom, and animosity masked with discretion towards their subject. He loved her, endlessly._

_“Some men are trash. You know this better than anyone else does,” his eyes darkened._

_“I wasn’t talking about-”_

_Eddie used his index finger to shush her lips, “I’m not finished. Although I haven’t run into many good examples myself besides my fathe— THAT WAS A FUCKING FOUL, ARE YOU KIDDING ME— sorry wait, okay, where was I…. Ah, so you know I haven’t had the best luck with relationships either, but I like to think there are good men out there,” and he patted his hand reassuringly on top of her crossed legs._

_She placed her hand on top of Eddie’s, “You’re right, I shouldn’t be so pessimisti-”_

_Before she could finish her sentence, a half full can of Budweiser hit her in the back of the head and toppled over her shoulder to spill into her lap. It had been thrown from rows behind them._

_“What the FUCK,” Beverly growled, snapping her head to the back of the stadium with fire in her eyes. A teenager sitting behind her gasped, ducking her head in case another can was thrown._

_“It was probably just some drunk, here I have some napki-”_

_“SLUT!” A voice screamed._

_Eddie twisted his neck to mirror Beverly’s contortion and met eyes with a man who looked more like a bear with mange than a human, “Oh fuck.”_

_“LOOK AT THIS WHORE WITH HER TWINK BOYFRIEND!” The same man hissed from rows back, now standing tall alongside four others. The five forcefully made their way out of their seats and down the aisle to get closer to Beverly and Eddie._

_“Bev, don’t-” Eddie advised, taking a hold of her forearm as she erupted from her chair. His head shifted between the quickly approaching man, his goonies, and Beverly. She didn’t pay any attention to Eddie and continued to heatedly castigate with his hand clenched around her._

_“YEAH? AND WHAT IF HE WAS MY BOYFRIEND, WHAT ARE YOU GUNNA DO ABOUT IT, TOM?”_

_“This isn’t going to help,” Eddie yanked her forearm so that she was forced to look at him, “Don’t do this, you’re better than this.” The look he gave her was stern with the want to avoid confrontation, but at this point it was unavoidable and like an undisciplined child, she freed herself from Eddie’s grasp and met the man in the aisle with immaculate posture. Eddie leapt from his seat to follow her quick enough to spark a fire with the electricity he charged._

_“Bitch,” the man spit by her shoes._

_“Asshole,” she lougied onto the front of his shirt. The crowd close to their encounter began to pay attention to their interaction over the actual hockey game._

_“I see ya brought your queer pet too. Hey Edward,” he ridiculed, eyeing Eddie up and down. One fan whistled an ‘ooOOOoooOo’._

_The four men lining in his wake chuckled. One was heavyset and greasy, one thin as a nail and obviously shier than the rest, one with hanging black hair and a disturbing demeanor, and the blonde closest to Tom vibrated with a caged ferocity that seeped through a sharpened grin._

_“Eddie brought me here, for my birthday. He actually remembers my birthday.”_

_“I always said you were a rotten bitch,” the blonde one spat._

_Tom sneered, “Henry’s right, how could I have ever been so dumb?”_

_Eddie spitefully spoke up from behind Bev, “Blame your genetics on that.”_

_The crowd around them became invested in their debacle, a few hollering and bouncing on the ends of their stadium seats, completely ignoring the game now. Their enthusiasm didn’t help the situation whatsoever._

_Loving the attention, Tom snarled and fisted Eddie in the chest. Eddie threw open palms up in front of his body and maintained his composure, but a rising heat boiled in his chest. In fact, that heat flushed his neck, his face, heated his scalp, began to surge a fire into his fists, his golden eyes seconds from blazing into a thick crimson. His Dr. Jekyll was fighting his internal Mr. Hyde from unleashing a tormenting hellfire._

_“Leave,” Beverly barked, pupils narrowed._

_Tom jolted a hand upwards to choke her underneath her jaw and brought his face uncomfortably close to her lips, “Make me.”_

_Eddie snapped— Dr. Jekyll vanished._

_Mr. Hyde took control with blacked out rage._

* * *

 

“ _Yowza_ , that’s….. that’s fucking bullshit,” Richie agreed. He massaged the top of his left forearm yawning, the newest of his tattoos healing there, and instead of incessantly scratching he applied pressure to the muscle underneath for some relief. It may have been the newest, but also happened to be one of his favorites: two hands crossing each other in the position of finger guns, with ‘pew pew’ scribbled in cursive along its outline.

The color in Eddie’s face heated to a dark pink and he flicked his hands into the air, “ _I know_! At least one person gets it. I would do anything for Bev.”

“Yeah, _yeah_ , I would do anything for my best friend too,” Richie grimly chastised with a puff of empty air. He ashed the butt of his cigarette on the bottom of his shoe to then slip it into his pants pocket without worry of burn remnants. It’s one of the endless benefits of wearing black clothing.

Failing to extinguish all of the cigarette, he burnt two of his fingertips expelling a hissed, “ _YOW_.”

Eddie pinched his face with judgement, catching the sarcasm in Richie’s voice, “You should if they’re your best friend. Period.”

“I’m not saying you’re wrong _—  quit it with the pouts, I can pretty much see them at this point—_ I just don’t have a best friend,” he retorted, bluntly devoid of any distinguishable emotion. Having a best friend sounded like a good thing, a pure thing, but one he didn’t have and one he didn’t feel like he deserved to have.

“Crap, I didn’t mean it like that,” Eddie insinuatingly apologized.

Cynically chuckling, Richie admitted, “I think the closest thing I had to a good friend was a bartender I met a few hours ago.”

“Seriously?”

“Talked to him for most of the night, and dude tried giving me a ride home a shit load of times, like, a _ton_ . He seemed genuinely concerned, _fuck_ , no one does that for me. Even hung around while I got arrested.”

“What bar? I’m pretty familiar with the bar hopping scene and have a lot of friends that bartend, maybe I know him.”

“Ah Eds, only if I could remember one of the many bars I fell into tonight. Can’t remember the fellow’s name either,” Richie disappointingly slouched against the door. He may not have taken the same beating Eddie had, but his body still ached in numerous places; his pride and lungs being two of the sites. Pounding on the front of his ribcage, he coughed purposefully hard to clear as much gunk out as possible.

Eddie let Richie call him Eds this time. Edward was his birth name, Eddie was his nickname, but Eds was spoken cursive. And somehow, this nickname of a nickname transcended from being one of satiric twist to one of unique endearment, and by his new friend.

“For the record, I would have driven you home too.”

Richie cocked his head with surprise, “I don’t understand.”

“Well yeah, what are friends for,” and Eddie’s mouth tugged upwards into a small smile.

Richie grinned wide enough that his cheeks made his eyes squint shut, “Two friends, tha’s a good number if I do say so myself.”

An excitement pooled in his belly that he rarely, nowadays anyway, had the pleasure of embracing. _Anonymity_. Eddie had absolutely no idea who he was, not even a clue, and being able to have a conversation with someone without them having preconceptions about who he was as a person based off of his radio show or podcast was something he never knew he’d want. He used to love the fame, use it in ways even he was ashamed of, became swallowed by it to a point where he had a hard time separating who he was with the persona that spoke over the microphone. Of course it was still him, but to keep ratings up and people interested, you almost _needed_ to be dramatic, controversial, even more so than Richie naturally was; an over exaggerated hyperbole of yourself that ultimately morphed into a shelled caricature.

Having Eddie talk to him as a stranger was lucidly refreshing. The clean slate made him feel comfortable enough to authentically share, rather than defaulting to produce quick, comedic fabrication. Like being on the radio, he had no face, but here was different. The persona wasn’t necessary.

All he needed to be was Richie.

“So what do ya do, Richie? Part of me thinks you’re a real-estate agent. Or some kind of salesman.”

_Oh no._

Richie sucked in a stream of air and held it for a moment, “I guess you could say that. I talk a lot for a living, so you’re on the right track.”

“I teach kickboxing at the gym off LaBrea,” Eddie revealed, tucking a blonde wave behind his ear. Richie exhaled all of his nerve rattled breath after Eddie changed the topic back to himself.

“You must have massacred that dude’s sorry ass.”

Licking the dulled points of his canines, Eddie numbly laughed, “Yeah….. and I didn’t even get to finish.” The severe, bottled rage he felt regarding Tom and Beverly’s past relationship threatened to creep back into his world. Beverly had a different opinion than Eddie. She used to try to convince him with ‘Tom has good parts, you just can’t see them’, ‘you’re being too hard on him’, ‘he didn’t mean it, really, this was the last time’’, and ‘He loves me’.

There was nothing about their relationship that was loving.

In Eddie’s opinion, Tom didn’t just deserve to be incarcerated, to be beaten to a pulp, tortured, given a death sentence, but deserved to have his nutsack gouged out while the rest of his body was flayed by a hot knife. There was no justification, no mercy, sympathy, _nothing_ he could muster for the filth Tom was; he was less of a human, and undeserving of any form of living vessel for the soul he didn’t have.

And he definitely didn’t deserve Beverly Marsh.

Richie slapped the ground with zealous, continuous beats as a metronome would, “How! _Fucking_! Rude! He! _Deserved_! It!”

“He did, but I dunno, sometimes I get so upset that I kinda lose it. Things go black.”

“I understand. But where your anger drops out your ass like the _Looney Toons_ tasmanian satan when you’re upset, I just drink myself into a grave like the tippler I am,” where Richie proceeded to imitate the character, yelling ‘ _bublah bububublah bublah pffffff!_ ’.

“That was terrible,” Eddie shouted, through muffled sniggers.

Richie smacked his lips and challenged, “Okay wise guy, you do it.”

A security guard angrily pounded on the outside of Richie’s door, startling both the inmates, “Keep it down in there!”

“ _Sorry Mom_!”

Eddie covered his mouth with both hands and curled over the front of his body to hide his laughter. He shouldn’t be laughing, nothing about this was funny, it _shouldn’t_ be funny, and somehow the absurdity of everything ensuing this night was hysterically funny. Even if he shouldn’t be laughing, he was, and with Richie as his witness.  

The guard pounded on Eddie’s door next, “You too, asshole! I mean it!”

“Got it... _Dad_!”

It was Richie’s turn to cackle, but he didn’t hinder his volume as Eddie had. He couldn’t remember the last time someone had made him choke on a laugh that painful. Stomping down the aisle away from their cells, the guard cursed profanities until only the echo of his keys rang along the concrete walls.

“I can’t believe you fucking said that,” Richie hailed out his window with admiration. His initial statement to the guard was bold, and for Eddie to follow that, well, that made Eddie a superhero in Richie’s contactless eyes.

Eddie straightened his posture and smuggly crossed his arms, “Don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Right right, don’t ask don’t tell.”

Caught off guard, Eddie defensively faltered, “What’s that supposed to mean? Just because I’m ga-”

“ _Eddie_ ,” Richie softened his tone.

“Thanks for trying to understand but….”

Taking a deep breath before speaking, he prepared a statement not heavy to vocalize from a  derision of shame, but breathed hard because the exhale would be relieving for both of them. He spoke just above a whisper, “I’m bi, Eds. I understand.”

“ _Oh_.”

They sat in ruminating silence for a rapt ticking of minutes. The prison was quiet for once, all too silent. No jingling of keys, shouts from officers, no moans or grunts heard from other cells, phones ringing, absent chatter, babies wailing— _nothing_.

Richie broke that quiet with a gift.

It wasn’t often he made friends and freed himself of his ingenuine hubris, but for all he knew, this would be a friend he’d never even get the chance to see. A token for giving was essential.

“I have something for you, reach out your window,” Richie easily spoke with a new clarity of yielding kindness. Unlike the confused shuffling he did to look for his lighter, he knew exactly where to find this present. It was a patch safety pinned to the outer breast of his jacket.

Sliding his arm out of his window with the patch in hand, Richie was able to free himself a little below his shoulder. Eddie was lucky enough to stretch out to his elbow; it was a good thing Richie’s arms were much longer.

Eddie’s fingers glided along the top of Richie’s wrist then down to his palm, feeling for what he held. Their hands met, hovering together in an empty space outside their cages, the heat of human touch after being isolated both comforting and administering a desire for more contact. As Eddie took Richie’s token, a quick, kinetic shock made both of their hands twitch with minuscule pain.  

“For being a kickboxing coach, your hands sure are soft,” Richie blurted without thinking. They both blushed immensely as they returned their arms back into the cells.

“Yours aren’t. You need lotion,” he laughed.

The patch Eddie held in his hands was of a heraldic griffin. It was in no shape or form new by the loose strings poking off the sides, but nonetheless, its black and blue stitching made it beautifully unique.

“Thanks Richie, ya sure you want me to have this?” He asked, caressing the stylized bumps of embroidery in the patch.

Richie assured with a gentle smile, “Yeah, I’m sure. I finally a friend to give something to.”

Eddie’s heart just about erupted from his chest cavity.  

This was Richie’s oldest and favorite patch. He couldn’t quite place why he decided to give Eddie this specific patch, his special one, for he had a wide selection of others to sacrifice, but it just felt right. Giving this cherished article to his new friend was like gifting a piece of himself; an honest piece of himself.

Eddie sighed, “I hope I get to see your face.”

“You will when we bust out of here, Eds.”

Richie hoped he would, but he was a man that never lived in definites. Blacks and whites were so limiting, ignoring the existence of the greys looming within that spectrum would be neglectfully ignorant. So, getting his hopes up for such a luxury would only bring more pain. But, he hoped.

Before pinning it to his jersey, a dimmed light bulb above Eddie’s head sparked a thought— he’d seen this symbol before. And while he couldn’t place where, it held unsettling familiarity from the past. His light bulb burnt out as exhaustion resettled.

Yawning, Eddie fought closing his eyes, “I think I’m going to try to sleep for a few hours.”

Even though he didn’t know what Richie looked like, he imagined him crawling up the side of the bed he was soon to nap in, and hug his backside tightly. That raspy voice dripping with subdued kind eloquence, the rough yet skeletal hands adorned with rings, they all matched the personality Eddie formulated for Richie’s physical form. And honestly, Eddie’s imagination wasn’t too far off.

“Pro’lly a good idea,” Richie agreed.

“Goodnight, Richi-”

Impulsively, like always, Richie faltered, “ _Wait_.”

_Fuck, what am I doing. I must still be fuckin’ drunk._

“Hrmm?”

“Can I-,” Richie massaged his temples then dragged his hands down his face, “Nevermind, we should both be getting to slee-”

“Can you what?”

“Can I hold your hand again?” Richie bashfully tried.

The shuffling of Eddie’s arm squirming out of his window was his answer. Richie’s hand reached out for Eddie, and Eddie stretched for Richie. They held hands, not in the position of a handshake, but in that of woven silk. The warmth, the desperation of closeness, all melded into a grasp that connected spirit.

What may have started as a wintered friendship was slowly blooming into a spring kinship. Their consensual touch, even without a face, solidified an undistinguished gem.

But love was there, in friendship or more than so.

* * *

 

[Metropolitan Detention Center, 8:00 AM, Saturday] 

“Rise and shine, loonies!” A crass voice screamed into the halls of iron bars. There was a reaping enjoyment vindicating his tone, unsympathetic of whomever was trapped within the prison walls.

Eddie’s eyes shot open. Like a remote controlled animatronic, his chest jolted vertically from the bed, momentarily disoriented by his surroundings. He quickly threw off the thin grey sheet on his body and shuffled across the floor to his cracked window, “Richie! _Richie_ , you awake?”

From the cell to his right, all that could be heard were groveling snores. Deep, echoing, knocked the fuck out snores.

“ _Shit_ ,” Eddie muttered under his breath.

Balling one of his scabbed fists into a titanium sphere, he pounded on his neighboring wall. He pounded in threes, listened, and waited. Nothing _—_ there was some shuffling and a squeak of the bed, but the snoring continued.

Eddie now punched the concrete wall harder, even though it hurt his hand, and shouted out his window, “RICHIE! WAKE THE FUCK UP!”

The snores stopped after one crescendoing grunt.

“. _..Eds_ ? Hwhat? Yeah, _oh my god my head_ , yeah. Okay yes, yes yes, I’m awake. I’M AWAKE,” and Richie spastically rolled off his bed accidentally to violently hit the floor. He crawled towards the blur that was his sink to turn on the faucet and slurp a few gulps of water.

_THIS TASTES LIKE SHITTTTTTTTTTT._

The officer stomped closer towards their adjacent stalls, “Y’all get one phone call ‘n I’ll come get ya when it’s yer turn. We wanna get ya out of here— put yer dirty ass hands back in that cell, _BOY_ — as soon as possible. Now lemme see… KASPBRAK! First up, where you at son?”

Eddie slinked his arm out of the crack in his window and waved, “Right here.”

Keys jingled in his hands, then slipped out of his sausage fingers to hit the floor, “They don’t pay me enough for this,” the overweight officer grumbled, picking up the keys with extraneous effort.

The door opened, “Hold out your hands, don’t make it more harder on yerself, got it?”

Without any resistance, Eddie was handcuffed in front of his body and escorted to the lobby to make his call. If he had been in Richie’s cell, he would have been able to quickly glance inside and put a face to the name he had talked with for hours the preceding night, but he wasn’t. He would have to wait longer to officially meet his new friend.

***RINGRING*RINGRING***

“EDDIE! Are you okay? Do you need-”

“I’m fine— _Bev I’m fine I promise, shush_ — you’re my one phone call so thank you a thousand times for picking up. Are you busy today? I kinda need to ask a big fucking favor.”

“Anything.”

Eddie let out a harshed laugh from his dry throat, “Bail me out? I don’t have the money in my bank account right now, I don’t get paid ‘till Thursday. _Please_ come get-”

“I’m on it. I have work off and was going to meet Ben for lunch, but he’ll understand, I’ve been worried sick about you. Where are you?”

“Metropolitan Detention Center.”

“They put you in that shithole? God okay, let me take out my drying from the laundry— _our neighbor is standing literally a few feet from me and wants to use it next so I can’t leave ‘em in here_ — then I’m on my way.”

“I owe you one, maybe three.”

“No, you really don’t. In fact, it’s on me, _and_ I’m bringing you a smoothie— _Eddie shut the fuck up, I’m bringing you a damn smoothie_ — see you soon!” And she hung up before Eddie could argue further.

As soon as she hung up, the officer confiscated his phone once more and provided him with a saran wrapped blueberry muffin complemented with a small carton of chocolate milk, then coldly threw him back in his cell.

He angrily thumped on his window, raising his still handcuffed wrists, “ _Hey_! I think you forgot something!”

“Well don’t have a hissy fit now, shorty.”

Eddie glared daggers at him and held out his wrists to be uncuffed, “I wouldn’t have to if you just did your job,” he quietly mumbled into his hair.

“Excuse me? Did you fuckin’ say something?”

“Nope,” Eddie grinned with evil satisfaction. He scarfed down the mediocre breakfast, but wasn’t happy about it in the slightest. What he really wanted was the smoothie he knew Bev was bringing him; it would be strawberry banana with protein powder, and sprinkled bee pollen.

Richie threw his mess of black curls back and piped up from his cell after the officer waddled away, clearly amused, “So you’re short, huh?”

“You close to your window?” Eddie diverted, mouth full of muffin.

Swinging his hand out of the crack in his window, Richie waved to Eddie who couldn’t even see him, “Yessir, you betcha.”

“Good, take what’s in my hand. I have something for you.”

“Oh goody! I get a gift!”

Stretching the full length of his arm towards Eddie’s cell, he took a hold of Eddie’s hand and blindly felt the outline of his curled first, including the one finger that stood straight up. Eddie was flipping him off.

Richie started to jack off Eddie’s middle finger, profusely giggling.

Eddie shrieked and retracted his hand, “Oh my God, fucking _STOP-_ ”

“TOZIER! RICHARD TOZIER! Your turn!”

“Thank you for the gift Eds, I really loved it, but it looks like it’s mah turn for a call.”

As he was escorted to the lobby like Eddie had been, a panic surged in him that he hadn’t even thought about who he was going to call. Both his parents were out of state, and even if they were close, would have told him to _‘figure it out_ ’. He lived alone, had no roommate to call, and _heck_ , he couldn’t think of one person that would sacrifice the pay and leave their day job to come get him. When he unlocked his phone’s black screen however, it opened to a page of three missed calls and one voicemail from an unsaved number.

Richie turned to the officer babysitting him and adjusted the ring in his nostril, “Hey Mr. Policeman, can I listen to a voicemail before making this call?”

“No. Make your call, Tozier.”

“Okay, but in all seriousness, hearing this voicemail is damn important. Please? _Please please please please-_ ”

“Fine, _Jesus Christ_. Shut up and make it quick.”

The voicemail went as so, recorded at 3:55 AM:

_Hey Richie, it’s Stan from the Black Crow. The bar. You gave me your phone number, in case you forgot, just wanted to make sure that you’re not dead. I didn’t hear you on your station this morning and was like, ‘wow Stan, I think you must be the only one who knows where this guy is’. If you get the chance, give me a call._ _Or not, it’s cool._

***RINGRING*RINGRING*RINGRING*RINGRING***

“He lives,” Stan drly chortled into the phone.

“Alive and thriving! The best I’ve ever been!” Richie sarcastically sang into the phone. The dark rings under his eyes were even worse with rays of daylight burning his vampiric skin.

“You sound awful.”

“Brilliant observation Staniel, the accuracy is unmatched by any other hypothesis-”

Stan cut him off, but without malice in his tone, “You’re just as much of a fool sober as you are drunk.”

Richie scoffed, “Who’s to say I’m sober?”

“Point taken. Did you call into work today?”

“Nope, I never really had the chance, my fuckin’ manager is going to tie a noose around my neck and push me off a balcony. I wanted to die during the nuclear apocalypse Stan, not at the hands of my _manager_.”

“That sucks, I’ve been there. Maybe not in the same _way_ necessarily, but my manager hates his wife enough to hate the rest of the world the same anger. Did they book you?”

“Yerp.”

“Are… are you still there?”

“I had one phone call.”

“Oh shit….. This, this is the call isn’t it.”

“Correct, once again.”

“I’m assuming you’re at the Detention Center downtown.”

“You keen motherfucker.”

“I have a late shift tonight, if you need a lift I can help. I’m just waiting for my neighbor to take out her drying so I can throw my stuff in, and then I’ll come get you.”

“My savior, yes please oh please. Also, thanks for uhm, looking out for me last night,” Richie snuck in their conversation before Stan ended the phone call.

Stan smirked against the receiver, “You’re welcome,” and pressed the ‘end’ button.


End file.
